


Awake

by Once_More_With_Feeling



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Choosing not to be a homophobe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, Gen, Homophobes redeeming themselves, Hurt/Comfort, Mrs. Hughes is a pillar of strength, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reconciliation, Suicide Attempt, learning, or at least trying to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling/pseuds/Once_More_With_Feeling
Summary: Many hours after attempting to take his own life, Thomas wakes up. Eventually, so does Mr. Carson.
Relationships: Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow & Andy Parker, Thomas Barrow & Charles Carson, Thomas Barrow & Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow & Phyllis Baxter
Comments: 93
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

It is two in the morning before he makes any sort of voluntary movement. 

She has nearly nodded off in her chair next to him several times, it being so late, and the day having been so arduous. And she has resisted the urge to move to his more comfortable armchair, or lie down beside him, knowing if she does, she might miss the moment when he first wakes. And Phyllis can’t have that. 

So when a low moan finally escapes him, and he shifts slightly in his bed, she straightens herself, and places one hand on his chest—she can feel his hands through the blankets there—and another on his forehead. She gently brushes his hair away from his face as she speaks to him.

“Thomas, my love. It’s alright, darling. You’re safe now.” 

He moans again, and she is sure it means he can hear her. She waits patiently for him to wake fully. 

“Thomas,” she calls again. “It’s alright. You’re alright… Can you open your eyes?”

She can see in his face what a difficult task it is, how hard he is trying.

And then, finally, he does it. Finally, for the first time in more than half a day, she looks into his blue eyes again. She wants to laugh and cry at the same time, and yet manages only a weak smile. “You’re alright,” she says again, her voice flooded with relief. She continues to stroke his hair with her left hand, and waits to see if he can speak. 

He draws a shaky breath, and opens his mouth slightly. “I didn’t…” he begins, his voice a whisper.

“No, dear one, you didn’t. And thank God.”

He opens his mouth slightly, but then abandons the effort to speak. So she leans down and kisses his brow, and when he makes no effort to pull away, she lets herself rest there a moment. Then she takes a deep breath, and pulls back slightly, so she can see him again. He is crying now. She wipes away his tears with her thumbs, and says, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, my love.” His face crumples, and she knows he will be in trouble if she can’t get him to stop. “Please don’t cry,” she says again. “You’ll not be able to catch your breath if you do.”

Just then, a knock at his door. She doesn’t let go of him, but looks up and toward the sound. Before she can say anything, the door opens, and Andy peeks around it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says to her. “So I thought I’d see if he—if you needed—”  
  
“He’s awake,” she says, interrupting him. 

Andy gasps slightly, and moves his eyes from Phyllis’ face to Thomas’. “He’s… he’s awake,” the younger man manages to repeat, as he steps into the room and closes the door. He brings himself to the other side of Thomas’ bed, and kneels beside it. Only then does Miss Baxter move slightly away from Thomas, to give Andy some space with him, too.

“Mr. Barrow,” Andy says, as he places his hand on the crown of Thomas’ head. “How’re you feeling?” he asks gently.

Thomas takes another breath, and answers only, “Andy.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow,” he says. “I’m… I’m right here. We’re all right here for you.”

Thomas looks from Andy to Phyllis and back to Andy again. He looks as though he wants to ask how on earth Andy knows about all this, but lacks the energy. Instead he says only, “I’m sorry,” and he begins to cry again. 

As his two friends make quick work of wiping his tears away, Andy murmurs, “No, Mr. Barrow, you don’t have a thing to be sorry for.”

“It’s not your fault,” Miss Baxter adds softly, and gently strokes his cheek with the back of her hand. 

Thomas turns to look at her, incredulous. “What?” he manages to whisper.

“It’s not your fault,” she says again, firmly this time. 

Again, he looks as though he wants to say something, to argue with them, but is too weak to form the words. He closes his eyes.

Before he falls asleep again, Miss Baxter squeezes his shoulder, and says, “It’s time for you to drink some water.” She nods to Andy, whose eyes widen a bit, before he understands.

He looks at Thomas. “I… I’ll just help you to sit up a bit, Mr. Barrow.” While Phyllis reaches for the glass of water waiting on the night table, Andy pushes his arm under Thomas’ neck and shoulders, and lifts him off of his pillow. Phyllis brings the glass to Thomas’ lips, and tilts it slightly.

Coordinating the actions of three people for one drink of water is a bit more difficult than Phyllis thinks it ought to be, but Thomas manages to down half the glass, before he begins to cough a little. When his coughing subsides, Andy lays him down again, and Phyllis pats his lips with her handkerchief. 

“Thank you,” Thomas whispers, as he relaxes into his pillow.

“You don’t need to thank us,” she says softly. “You just need to let us take care of you. We’re all going to take care of you now.”

“Thank you,” he whispers again.

Miss Baxter glances up at Andy, and they both begin to busy themselves with pulling and tucking blankets around their patient, smoothing his hair, and adjusting his pillow. 

“It’s time you got some rest, Mr. Barrow,” Andy says in a low voice.

“Are you warm enough?” Miss Baxter asks.

“Yeah,” he whispers. 

“Good,” she says, and lays her hand once more on his forehead. “You go back to sleep, then, and we’ll watch over you.”

He nods silently, and falls again into sleep. 

They both watch him intently for a moment, and then Miss Baxter speaks. “Well. I think that went… fairly well,” she says, and looks to Andy for agreement. 

He nods solemnly. “I suppose so,” he says. 

Now that Thomas has woken—and is safely asleep again—some part of her consents to letting her guard slip just a little. It will be terribly awkward to cry in front of Andy, but better him than Thomas, she thinks. 

She continues to brush Thomas’s hair with her hand, and lets her tears fall where they might. She says in a low voice, “He was such a sweet boy, you know. When he was young.”

Andy looks up at her, eyes wide again. “How long have you known him, Miss Baxter?”

Has Andy not heard? She had thought her long acquaintance with Thomas’ family was common knowledge downstairs. “All of his life,” she says. “I met him the night he was born. Our mothers were friends, and I was in the same class with his sister all through school.”

“I didn’t know he had a sister,” Andy says.

She looks up at him and smiles slightly. “Yes,” she says. “Margaret.” Her smile fades. “I don’t believe he’s spoken to her in… quite a long while.”

Andy is quiet a moment. “And… his feelings… about men. About _some_ men. They don’t bother you?”

She can’t help but sigh, even though after today, she is certain that nothing will ever shock or surprise her again. So she simply says, “It breaks my heart to think how his… being different… has caused him pain. But the feelings he has… No. They don’t bother me. He’s not hurting anyone.”

Another pause. Then, astonishingly, Andy does manage to shock her. 

“Maybe you should tell him that,” he says. 

Her soft brown eyes meet his again. Her lower lip trembles. “I suppose I should have,” she murmurs.

Andy’s face blanches. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to say that you… did something, or should have done something differently. I don’t mean to say that this is your fault.”

“No, I know that,” she says. She sits up a little straighter, and brings her hands to her lap. “I just think… hearing it aloud just now. It made me realize that you’re right.” She nods, as if to hearten herself. “I should tell him. I will.”

Andy nods, and swallows. “The thing is,” he begins. “I think I feel the same as you do. About Mr. Barrow, and about men—people—like him. They’re not hurting anyone.” Andy places a protective hand on his sleeping friend’s crown again, as if at least one of them should touch him at all times now, to hold him together. “I never told him either… but that’s because I was too busy… being wrong,” he finishes, shaking his head.

Miss Baxter tilts her head, and places her own hand over Andy’s, where it rests in Thomas’ hair. “Perhaps you ought to forgive yourself,” she says gently. “And you can tell him how you feel, soon enough.”

Andy nods again, and gives her a weak smile. He stands then, and stretches his long legs. He takes a deep breath, and leaves his place at Thomas’ side for a moment, to retrieve another chair from the corner of the room. He places the chair next to the bed, where he has been kneeling, and lowers himself into it. He rubs his eyes.

“If you’re tired, you should go to bed,” Phyllis tells him. “It’s alright, I’ll stay with him.”

“No. I really couldn’t,” Andy says. “I’m exhausted, but… I just don’t want to leave him, you know?”

Phyllis smiles. She does know. She doesn’t plan to leave Thomas any time soon, either. “Well, rest your eyes, then,” she says. 

He nods, and curls his arms on the mattress next to Thomas’ pillow, and rests his head there. Sleepily, he murmurs, “Tomorrow I’ll take apart the spare bed in my room, and put it together in here. That way we’ll have somewhere to rest while we’re looking after him.” 

Phyllis nods. “That’s a good idea,” she whispers.

After only a few minutes, Andy’s rhythmic breathing seems to match Thomas’, and she knows they are both soundly asleep. It is only then that her own exhaustion finally hits her. 

Her eyelids suddenly seem to be made of lead, and when she closes them, her eyes burn. She opens them and looks at Thomas. He looks so peaceful. So… young, somehow. Just the way she remembers him. She wonders if she is so tired that her vision is wavering, or playing tricks on her mind. She places one arm protectively over Thomas’ chest, careful not to disturb Andy. She folds her other arm on the edge of the mattress, and lays her head on it. As if on cue, the small oil lamp she had lit so many hours ago snuffs itself out, empty of fuel at last. 

The room is dark. She breathes in, and out. She closes her eyes, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just going to be honest: I am so afraid of posting this one. A part of me just can’t stop thinking that the comments will mainly consist of “didn’t you write this already?” Almost every comment I’ve received on my stories has been positive, encouraging, and helpful. Your kindness as readers is a huge part of what compelled me to keep writing. So I don’t know why I keep thinking that you won’t be as kind about this one. Probably because I'm the one who keeps thinking “didn’t you write this already?”
> 
> I suppose the short answer to that question would be yes. I think I might have wanted to write it again, but in more detail. Also I wanted Andy to show up. 
> 
> I would like to explain that I wrote chapter one as a one-shot, about three years ago. I never intended to post it; it was just for me. I have to give credit to Fififjonka, who wrote a story over three years ago called Waking Up, that I bookmarked and have read again from time to time. Many of us have written many different versions of the moment Thomas woke up after his suicide attempt, and mine, here, was at least partly inspired by Fififjonka’s take on it being both Miss Baxter and Andy being there for him when he did. I so loved reading the tender care they both showed Thomas in his/her/their story, and I hope it’s alright that I tried to capture that in mine, too.
> 
> I wrote chapters two, three, and four last December, as a separate story that focused on Thomas and Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Then I realized my private little one-shot immediately precedes the more recently written part of this story, and they came together like pieces of a puzzle. But I was afraid of posting the entire story, due to the above mentioned (and probably unfounded) anxiety. I put the whole thing away (so I could overthink posting it), and here we are six months later.
> 
> Somehow the longer I wait, the less relevant it seems… I wonder if that’s true. Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this one. Please consider letting me know if you do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for your wonderfully encouraging and sweet comments on chapter 1. I'm now thoroughly convinced that this story is relevant, and something you are interested in reading. I even feel a little silly for being so worried about posting this one... What was I thinking? Thank you all again for your kindness. I hope you enjoy chapter 2.

The sun has already peeked over the low hills surrounding the estate, when Mr. Carson and his wife leave their cottage to walk to the big house. The morning dawns bright and fine, but their steps are heavy as they tread to work. Charlie’s own heart is clenched with guilt, and he knows Mrs. Hughes’ is filled with worry. They make their way wordlessly to the back door, and Mr. Carson unlocks it. They move inside in silence, remove their hats and coats, and look at each other a moment.

Then he sighs. “I’ll go up first, and look in on him,” he says.

“You don’t have to, Charlie,” she says softly. “I can go.”

He raises his hand just a little to stop her. He knows she wants to go, but he needs to. “No, that’s alright. I’ll go.” And he turns toward the stairs. 

***

He reaches Mr. Barrow’s door, and pauses for a moment to determine whether he should knock. He decides against it, thinking the noise might be a disturbance to the room’s occupants. So he opens the door as gently as possible, and steps just inside. There he finds more than the two people he expects to see; Thomas is sleeping in his bed, as he should be, and Miss Baxter sleeps in a chair next to him, bent forward with her head resting on Thomas’ pillow. But Andrew is there, too, on the opposite side of the bed from Miss Baxter. He sleeps in a wooden chair also, with his head resting on his arms, which are folded on the edge of the mattress.

Normally, of course, the sight of three servants curled up together in one room would be shocking grounds for dismissal. But not today. Today, everything is different.

Mr. Carson attempts to stand a little straighter, but cannot quite find the energy. He sighs again, and approaches Andrew. He places a soft hand on the young man’s shoulder. Once Andrew wakes, he pulls his hand away.

Andrew lifts his head, and looks up at the butler, appearing a bit confused at first.

“Andrew,” Mr. Carson says softly. “I know you are… concerned for Mr. Barrow. We all are. But… it’s after six o’clock. And I do need you downstairs.”

The footman blinks. “Oh,” he finally says. “Right. Yes, Mr. Carson.” Then he turns and looks again at Thomas. 

Mr. Carson backs away from the bed, toward the door, making space for Andrew to move past him. But he doesn’t. He stays in his chair, and reaches out to graze Thomas’ forehead with the tips of his fingers. Then once more he looks up at the butler, and Mr. Carson can see tears welling in the young footman’s eyes. 

Andrew’s lower lip quivers, but he raises his chin, takes a deep breath, and then turns back to Thomas one more time. He leans over the sleeping man, and gently kisses him, in the place on his forehead where has just brushed away his hair. Thomas stirs in his sleep. 

Andrew finally stands now, and faces the butler, defiance shining in his eyes. If only he knew there is no need for this now. 

What a monster the younger staff must think him. Do they really believe that he thinks Thomas ought not to be loved, especially now, after all he has been through? Mr. Carson lowers his eyes, and says quietly, “Alright, Andrew. You may go.”

The footman nods, and walks silently past the butler, and out of the room. 

Once he is gone, Mr. Carson suddenly realizes he is now standing, practically alone, in the presence of a _sleeping woman,_ who is not his wife. How can he touch her, or try to wake her? He briefly considers just leaving, and sending Mrs. Hughes up to do this, but he needs to inquire after Thomas. 

He clears his throat. Then he silently thanks God that this, apparently, is enough. Miss Baxter lifts her head, winces at the obvious pain in her neck and shoulders, and looks up at him. Then embarrassment that matches his spreads over her face. 

“Oh, Mr. Carson,” she says. She pulls the shawl draped around her shoulders more tightly around herself, and looks away, avoiding his eyes. 

“How—how is he?” he begins. “Has he woken yet?”

Miss Baxter looks up at him now. “Oh, yes. He woke for the first time at about two o’clock.”

Mr. Carson drops his shoulders, and the tightness in his chest eases a little. “I see,” he says. “And… did he remember what had happened?”

She nods. “He was upset, of course, and he was crying.” She looks back at her patient. “But Andy and I were here, and we were able to console him. Oh, and he took some water,” she finishes, looking back at Mr. Carson.

Suddenly the butler does not know what to do with his hands. He flaps them uselessly at his sides, before clasping them behind his back. “Well,” he says. “That’s good.” He looks at the floor. Then he makes himself look at Mr. Barrow. He is still pale, but not like he was last night. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and he seems fairly peaceful. “I believe Dr. Clarkson wants to look in today,” he says.

Miss Baxter nods. “Yes, I think so,” she says.

Mr. Carson looks down again. “Well,” he begins, though he has no idea how to finish. “I… well. I’ll… leave you to it, then.”

Without looking in Miss Baxter’s direction again, he turns, and leaves the room, missing the moment when Thomas opens his eyes. 

***

Mr. Carson somehow hopes, as he makes his way down to the servants’ quarters, that he will find his wife waiting for him at the bottom of the last staircase. He does not, however. And she is not in the kitchen, either. He finds her in her place next to his own empty chair, at the table in the servants’ hall, eating breakfast with the others. Somehow he cannot bear the thought of walking into the room and watching everyone stand to greet him. So he stops outside the door, and waits until she notices him, which only takes a moment. When their eyes meet, he jerks his head back just a little, silently asking her to join him.

She discreetly rises from her chair, and joins him in the corridor. 

“Is he alright?” she asks.

“I’m… I mean, he… I’m not sure,” he finally manages. 

“But you saw him.”

“Of course I saw him,” he says, then regrets snapping. He takes a deep breath in. “He looks… a little better, but… well, Miss Baxter said he woke late last night, and was able to take some water, but he was very upset. And we can’t know how long he’ll…” He cannot finish. His throat suddenly aches, and he cannot speak. He brings a hand to his brow.

“You’re shaking,” his wife says softly. He lowers his hand, and tries to steady himself. Her voice still low, she continues, “Charlie, are you sure you’re alright?”

He swallows. “I’m sure I will be. It’s just…” 

She puts her hand on his arm, and changes her tack just a little. “Did you tell Miss Baxter we would bring her some breakfast?”

Breakfast? Oh, yes. “I—no. I didn’t. But we should,” he says, regaining his composure a bit. He turns toward the kitchen.

She doesn’t let go of his arm, and says, “You go sit down and eat something. I’ll fix up a tray, and bring it to her.”

He begins to protest, but then gives in to her help. He doesn’t think he can go back up there, not yet. So he nods, and walks toward the servants’ hall, and lets them all stand when he enters the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Armed with a tray full of porridge and toast and tea, the housekeeper ascends the stairs to the attics, then walks down the corridor to Thomas’ room. She cannot knock with her hands so full, so she pushes Mr. Barrow’s door open slowly, and steps inside.

“Good morning,” she says softly to Miss Baxter, who is sitting on a little wooden chair next to Thomas’ bed, holding his right hand in both of hers.

Miss Baxter looks up with weary eyes, and answers in a low voice, “Good morning, Mrs. Hughes.”

“I brought you some breakfast,” she says, and places the tray on Thomas’ desk. When Miss Baxter says nothing to this, she takes a few steps toward the bed, so she can see the man lying in it. He is still sleeping, and Mr. Carson is right; he does look a little better than he did yesterday. “How was your night?” she asks the lady’s maid.

Miss Baxter nearly scoffs. Then she gives the housekeeper an apologetic look. “Long,” she whispers.

“You must be exhausted,” Mrs. Hughes offers.

“I’m not leaving,” is Miss Baxter’s immediate reply.

Mrs. Hughes looks down at her. “No,” she says. “No, I don’t think you should.” She pauses for a moment, then continues. “But if you want to go to your room for just a bit, and wash, and change your dress, that would be alright. I’ll stay with him.”

Miss Baxter looks down at Thomas, then nods slightly, almost to herself. She looks up again at the housekeeper, though, and says roughly, “Alright. Yes, I think I will.” Then she lets go of Thomas’ hand, and says, more to him than to Mrs. Hughes, “I’ll be right back.”

Once Miss Baxter has left the room, Mrs. Hughes walks the few steps to the other side of Thomas’ bed. After a moment’s hesitation, she sits down on the mattress, next to him. She gently slips her own left hand under and into his—currently gloveless and wrapped instead in white bandages—where it lays over his chest. She touches the back of her right hand to his forehead, hoping to feel more warmth there than she did yesterday.

He opens his eyes, and takes a moment to focus on her face. “Mrs. Hughes,” he whispers.

She nearly cries out, but stops herself. She allows herself a smile, and says, “My, it does my heart good to see your eyes open.” He turns his face toward her hand, which now strokes his cheek. “You’re warmer than you were,” she says quietly. “And I think you’ve got a bit of color back.”

“Have I?” he asks, closing his eyes again.

“Oh, Thomas,” she tuts. She stops herself from asking him what he was thinking, and instead, brings his hand to her lips, and kisses it.

Then he opens his eyes, which are filling with tears, and whispers, “You shouldn’t be so good to me.”

She turns her hand, so her palm now rests on the side of his face, and says, “No, pet. We should always be so good to you.” She raises her eyebrows, and waits to see if he believes her. When all she gets is an eyebrow raise in return, she says, “Now, you are going to rest, and let us look after you.”

He sniffs, and says, “That’s what Miss Baxter said.”

She can’t help but smile just a little. “Well, Miss Baxter is a smart woman,” she says. “You should listen to her.”

What might be a ghost of a smile crosses his lips for a second only, before he relaxes, and is quiet again. She continues to stroke his face for a minute or two, then lays down his hand once again on his chest. She brings his blankets up, and tucks them under his chin.

“Are you warm enough now?” she asks softly.

Without opening his eyes, he says, “I’m still cold. Just a little.”

She looks around the room for another blanket, but doesn’t see one. Then she looks back at him. “I’ll bring up a hot water bottle for you a little later, then,” she says.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She gives him a sad smile, then waits a moment. Once she is sure he is sleeping again, she stands from his bed, and surveys his room. While fairly neat, it can do with a few adjustments to make everyone more comfortable. She straightens herself, and sets to work.

***

She sets her eyes first on the wooden chair on the opposite side of his bed, and shakes her head at the thought of Miss Baxter having spent all night sitting in it. She walks around his bed, picks up the chair, and returns it to his desk, where Miss Baxter’s breakfast is growing cold. She frowns a little at this, then moves to the corner of his room, and manages to scrape his secondhand armchair across the wood floor, closer to his bed. The chair has a small square pillow on its seat; she picks it up and gives it a little fluffing, then puts it back in its place.

Then she turns to his bedside table. She picks up his nearly empty glass, and fills it from the pitcher of water on his desk. After she replaces it, she picks up a handkerchief that must belong to Miss Baxter. It is nearly soaked with tears, so she takes her own handkerchief from her sleeve, and places it on the small table, for later. She will be sure to wash Miss Baxter’s, and return it to her this evening.

She decides that as soon as Miss Baxter comes back, she’ll go down to the linen cupboard, and bring back more pillows and blankets—for Thomas, as well as for all those who will spend long hours in this room caring for him.

On that note, Her Ladyship’s maid enters the room, wearing a clean black dress, her hair brushed and freshly pinned. She doesn’t exactly look well, but she looks a little better. Mrs. Hughes smiles at her, and nods toward the armchair. “I thought you might be more comfortable in this,” she says.

Miss Baxter dips her head. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Mrs. Hughes waits a moment. “I’m going to go down and fetch a hot water bottle for Thomas. I’ll bring up a new breakfast tray for you.” She makes sure to catch Miss Baxter’s eye. “I want you to be sure to eat it this time.”

Miss Baxter looks as though she may argue, then resigns, and nods. “Alright,” she says.

“You need to keep your strength up, if you’re going to be a help to him.”

“Yes,” Miss Baxter answers. “I know. I will.”

“Good.”

Both women are silent for another moment. Then Mrs. Hughes drops her shoulders, tilts her head, and tries to look Miss Baxter in the eye again. She takes an uncertain step toward her, then another. When they stand inches apart, Mrs. Hughes carefully wraps her arms around the younger woman, and pulls her in, close to her chest. Miss Baxter gives in, lays her head on Mrs. Hughes’ shoulder, and cries.

The housekeeper runs her hand up and down Miss Baxter’s back, and whispers, “There, there. It’s alright. He’s going to be alright.”

Miss Baxter shudders. “I know, but…”

“Shh,” she says. “We’ll be here for him. We’ll help him in any way we can.”

The lady’s maid nods her head, and closes her eyes. After another moment, Mrs. Hughes leans back a little, and brings her hand to Miss Baxter’s face, brushing away tears and mussed hair. “There now,” she says brightly. “We’ll be alright, won’t we?”

Miss Baxter nods again, and tries to smile. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mrs. Hughes says. “I’ve taken your handkerchief for washing. I’ll be sure to bring you a new one; I’ve left one of mine for now. I’ll get linens, the hot water bottle, and your breakfast, and be back up soon.” She takes a deep breath, fortified by having things to do.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” Miss Baxter says, sounding a bit stronger herself now. “You’re always so good about looking after all of us.”

The housekeeper smiles, and leaves the room, to gather the things she has promised.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Life’s altered you, as it’s altered me. And what would be the point of living if we didn’t let life change us?”_

Mrs. Hughes decides to go downstairs first, to get the hot water bottle, and a new breakfast tray, then get the linens on her way back. A new breakfast is easy enough to garner, aside from a hands-on-hips “Hmph,” from Mrs. Patmore, whom Mrs. Hughes suspects does not care for Miss Baxter’s inability to eat the first one in a timely manner. But Mrs. Patmore is not privy to what is actually going on in the under-butler’s room.

While the new tray is being assembled, Mrs. Hughes sets out to find a hot water bottle. The trouble is, this being June, they haven’t been used in two months at least, probably three. Certainly they are a useful way to warm servants who sleep in the frigid attics in the winter. But where are they now? She fails to find them in the boot room, or in her own sitting room. So she walks to Mr. Carson’s pantry, and opens the door.

She expects to find the room empty, but instead, finds her husband sitting at his desk, staring blankly at a small pile of papers. A teacup, no longer steaming, sits next to him. She is about to ask what he is doing, but when he looks up at her, she can see that his eyes are shining with tears.

She enters the room, and closes the door behind her. Then she wipes her hands on the front of her dress, and walks around his desk. Silently, she puts a hand on his back, and is not entirely surprised when he leans into her, and makes a small sound, as if he is coughing. She rubs his back, and listens until his breathing slows to normal.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

“I know,” she murmurs.

After another moment of quiet, he pulls away from her, wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, and returns his attention to the pile on his desk. She looks down at it then, too.

“What’s this?” she asks softly.

He clears his throat. “I was… looking at Mr. Barrow’s employment file.”

“Oh?” she returns, waiting for more, as she is sure there will be.

“Yes,” he says, swallowing. Now he puts both hands to the file, shifting the papers. “I’m not sure why, really. I just… wanted to think on things… before all of this. And try to figure when it all went so wrong for him.”

She presses her lips together, and tears begin to well in her own eyes. How she loves him in that moment—looking in all the wrong places for answers to a question he never asked. She wants to draw him into her arms again, but he moves to pick up a photograph from the file. It is an image of Thomas, in his army uniform, and “1914” is written at the bottom.

“Look at this,” he says softly.

She tilts her head, and takes in the image of the younger version of Thomas. He does not look proud, or confidently determined, as some soldiers in his place might. He glares into the camera, and out at whomever looks back at him.

“He’s trying to look so hard,” she remarks.

Mr. Carson nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “He always tries to look hard, doesn’t he?”

Mrs. Hughes is not sure this is entirely true. She turns, and sits on the edge of her husband’s desk, and looks down at him. “He isn’t hard at all, really,” she says.

Mr. Carson looks up at her, and finally a tear falls from his eye. “No,” he manages. “And all these years, I didn’t know. I only believed what I saw.”

“Most of us believe what we see, Charlie,” she offers.

He looks away from her, across the room. “How can I ever make it up to him?” he asks.

Just then Mrs. Patmore opens the door, and steps into the room. “That breakfast tray is ready, Mrs. Hughes,” she says. “And I found a water bottle in the kitchen. It was up with the headache powders and that lot. You’d better take them up while they’re both still hot,” she adds, with a raise of her eyebrows.

Mrs. Hughes has always known what is good for her, so she thanks the cook, and stands from her perch on the desk. Mrs. Patmore turns and heads back to the kitchen, mumbling something about why anybody would need a hot water bottle at the top of summer.

“Charlie?” Mrs. Hughes asks, casually. “Would you come up with me? I have to carry the tray, and that will make it hard to manage the water bottle, too. Why don’t you bring it up?”

He looks up at her. He draws a deep breath, and nods. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll come with you.”

***

While the butler only looks forward with trepidation to interacting with Thomas, he is grateful for the object in his hands as he ascends the stairs. Carrying something so warm unexpectedly helps to ease not only his nerves, but also to calm the tremor in both of his hands. 

When they reach Mr. Barrow’s door, Mrs. Hughes gently pushes it open. She walks into the room, and puts the tray down on the desk. Mr. Carson stays where he is at first, in the doorway, clutching the water bottle to his chest.

Thomas is still lying on his back, and his eyes are closed. His right arm is uncovered again, and Miss Baxter, who is now seated in an armchair next to his bed, holds his bandaged right hand in both of hers.

Mrs. Hughes approaches Miss Baxter, and lays a hand on her shoulder. “Now you eat up this time,” she says, though not unkindly.

“I will,” Miss Baxter agrees. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hughes smiles, and turns back to her husband. “Now,” she says. “I need to see about some more blankets and pillows. It may take me a minute to find enough.”

She is leaving? He hadn’t thought he would have to do this by himself. Miss Baxter is here, but… He looks at his wife, and has no idea what to do, or say.

Mrs. Hughes looks at the water bottle, then up at her husband’s face. “I’ll be back soon,” is all she says.

He finds it in himself to nod, and step aside, so she can pass by him, out into the corridor. He looks down at the object in his hands, and tries to focus once again on its warmth. He knows he could just hand it to Miss Baxter and leave, but wasn’t he wondering out loud five minutes ago, what he could do to make it up to Mr. Barrow? To show him that he does not see him as entirely heartless, and without a feeling to his name?

The gesture before him is small, but perhaps it is significant enough, for today.

He walks slowly to Thomas’ bed, on the side opposite from where Miss Baxter sits. He makes sure to look her in the eye first, and gives her a sad smile. Then he carefully lifts Thomas’ blankets, moving them down to his waist. Thomas stirs at the sudden cold, and opens his eyes. He looks at Mr. Carson for a second or two, then presses his eyelids closed again. Mr. Carson nods, imperceptibly almost, and presses on. He lifts Thomas’ bandaged left arm, and then lays the water bottle over the man’s abdomen. He brings Thomas’ left hand up, and lays it gently down over the warmth of the bottle. Then Miss Baxter picks up Thomas’ right hand, and crosses it over the bottle, too.

Mr. Carson hesitates. Then he reaches out with his right hand, and places it lightly in the middle of Mr. Barrow’s chest, offering a silent apology to the heart beating inside. Then both he and Miss Baxter grasp Thomas’ blankets, and cover him once more.

Thomas keeps his eyes firmly closed.

The butler then stands a little straighter. He folds his hands behind his back, and clears his throat. “Miss Baxter,” he begins. “When Mr. Barrow wakes, would you please tell him that I have told the other servants that he is ill with influenza.” He pauses. “And I will speak to His Lordship, and make certain that Mr. Barrow may stay on in employment here, for as long as he needs.” His words are low and gentle, but certainly loud enough for a man who might be pretending to sleep to hear.

“Certainly, Mr. Carson,” Miss Baxter answers.

“Very good,” Mr. Carson says, with a nod of his head. He turns, and makes his way to the door. Just before leaving, he looks once more at the lady’s maid, and says, “Do make sure you eat your breakfast, Miss Baxter.”

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” she whispers, just before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented on this one. Your support means the world to me!


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